


Lessons On Love & Lust

by SmutWithPlot



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Bondage, Explicit Language, F/M, Master/Slave, Non-Consensual, Torture, Whipping, apprentice!Regina, explicit violence, love potion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-11
Updated: 2013-01-11
Packaged: 2017-11-25 03:55:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/634850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SmutWithPlot/pseuds/SmutWithPlot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Regina is screwing around with love potions, and is met with unexpected side effects. When Rumplestiltskin gets trapped in it too, he decides not to take it easy on her. #HorrificHeadcanons</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lessons On Love & Lust

**Author's Note:**

> So... this is a headcanon that's been floating around in the back of my mind for quite some time. I don't know that I would EVER ship Regina/Rumplestiltskin as anything romantic, but given that they have a Master/apprentice relationship, I would not be surprised if there was a kink aspect there. In fact, I'm damned certain there is. And if it's a little less than consensual, all the better. (Because Rumples is too paranoid to truly give his heart, and Regina is too broken.) ...Yes, all of my headcanons are this kind of horrifying. What can I say? I'm twisted. Schadenfreude. It's a thing.
> 
> Wizarding sensory play! Answers are at the bottom, but there are a couple references to other works. You get bonus points if you catch them.

“REGINA!”  
The sorceror's apprentice gasped, gathering her things into a smaller space. His boots are stomping up the stairs, and her panick has infected the air. Even her potion starts to bubble and turn a sickly green colour. She curses, but turns at the last second to face him, her hands clutching the table for support.  
He stops at the top of the stairs, his face scowling. “There you are,” he growled. His eyes quickly look to where her supplies are spilling into his own workspace. “Potion-making? We were to be outside, gathering things.”  
She tries to smile, but it's all teeth and pain. “S-sorry. I...” She attempts to wave, but there's no energy in her hand. “I was... trying to finish. Sorry.”  
He marches forward, and she curls in on herself, his magick whipping about him; she can almost feel him waving a hand in the air, dispelling the stench of fear that she's flooded the space with, even if fists are clenched at his sides. He steps up close to her, their boots nearly touching, a lip curled into a sneer. She leans backwards, worried for his wrath, and his nose is so close to hers; narrowed eyes, too large and green, flick back and forth at hers.  
He smells of spice. Old, and dusty. The lizard stench of his magick is a musk that drips and oozes from him, thick and pungent. There is straw, and stone, and the wet of dungeons. Woods and wilderness, and a heaviness that comes from age and power.  
It's intoxicating.  
“I'm s-sorry,” she whispers again, but her eyes linger on the lips that sneer, pursed, pressed together. The lips that she can see for their age, of ruddy complexion, hard lines from hard living. Just as she can see the stain of green and gold and magick and accursed power that has corrupted his very body. She knows that his hair was once gray and brown, his eyes the colour of milk chocolates, that there is a grievous injury to his right knee that was from some past act of cowardice he never recovered from. Just as much as she can see the scales and leather that he's wrapped around his form, warning off would-be lovers that he's just as ugly on the inside as the outside.  
“I don't want your apologies,” he hisses. She can taste the spirits on his breath, as much as she can the spice and smoke and ash from his pipe. It's never food that she can taste, always something stronger. “I want your obedience.”  
She gives a weak smile. “Yes, Master,” she whispers. But her hands tremble from the awkward position, and his presence is overwhelming. She shifts, resting her weight on the table, and in doing so, her leg brushes against his.  
The motion catches his attention, and his head immediately pivots, his eyes flitting to the offending limb, his movements quick, like a bird. She holds her breath, screaming inwardly for disturbing him, and looks down and sees...  
...She's placed her legs on either side of him. She hadn't noticed him press her so low, and she wonders if perhaps he didn't realise it, either. His hands are no longer fists, but claws. They vibrate in place, and there's a strange new taste to the air.  
It's a crisp, sharp, but rather hot feeling. Like a taste of broth, fresh from the pot. It isn't layered with spices yet, but the heat of it burns you, the yellow-gold like chicken the only thing you know.  
She frowns, and looks up at him. This is a new kind of magick he hasn't shown her before. She can feel it swirling around him, and he raises his hands, slowly, as if he can feel the tide rising as well, hoping to save his sleeves. But his eye is caught on her leg, draped in thick skirts.  
“...Master?” she asks. His face is stricken, but there's a darkness to his eyes – a hunger, or else violence? She can't quite place it... – that worries her.  
“Now you've done it,” he breathes. The golden aura thins, wrapping tighter around him, and she can hear his heart, pounding fast, and it calls to her.  
“...What is this?”  
His lips curl, but this time they twist in amusement. His hands lower to her, and grip at her hips, through the layers of cloth. His grip is hard, and still abuzz. That golden aura ignites against her, and she can't help but gasp. He leans closer, moving so slow it's almost as if he's trying so hard to pull himself away, but is only succeeding in making the inevitable take longer.  
His lips are at her ear. _“Trouble,”_ he whispers, the word dancing a jig with his brogue. Some days it's not quite so thick, but now it's low and heady, and she feels her own pulse start to quicken. The golden aura begins to come from her own skin, too, emanating from her. It's warm and tingly... His breath is on her hair, and although she stays still, she feels the irresistible urge to lean into him.  
She does so, and their shoulders meet. She lets the warm energies wrap around the pair of them, hot and rich, savoury. The flavour is bolder, now, and it settles into her skin, taking with it the sharp acrid taste of his magick, some wood and spice, and the faint scent of apples and the stables. She rests her face against him, and inhales, letting the comforting spell envelope her. His hands are solid at her hips, and their bodies slowly melt together, his grip still like rock, and his head moves at hers.  
“...What are you brewing?” There is a distance to his words, as if he's trying to pull himself back, and is taking the experiment as an excuse.  
“Mmm,” she murmurs. This new magick is warm, and comfortable. She finds she rather likes it, and wonders why he hadn't shown her it before. It was in a way far more intimate than a lover's embrace, far more kind, far more encompassing, and it filled her with a peace she couldn't describe. “A love potion.”  
He snickers softly in her ear. “Is that what the recipe calls it?” His voice is gentle, like velvet. He never speaks to her this way. It's as luxurious as the silk of his shirt. She brushes a finger against his arm, and the magick springs forth from under her touch, adding to the atmosphere. It feels wonderful.  
“Yes,” she replies. “...Someone asked me if I could make one, and I told them I would try it out. I confess...” She tries to pull away, and finds that the magick allows her to. “...You've distracted me.”  
There is a kindness to his features. She isn't sure if it isn't a small smile on his lips, or a sad one. “Well. You're off to a very good start.” One of his hands is no longer gripping her in a vice, but the thumb has started circling at the crease, stirring up the magick. The other reaches up to brush a strand of hair from her face. “It's good, strong magick.” She notices that his eyes are not quite focused on hers. “The ingredients are pure, and you've paid good attention to them. The anxiety and worry and fear and desperation of me finding you mid-potion have only heightened the sacrifice, making it that much stronger.”  
His touch is electrick, hotter even still. She can sense this magick entwining around them, and it thickens, rich like butter, and she feels so... at peace. She takes a deep breath of the spice and apples and straw and swamp. “...Stronger,” she echoes. Her eyes flutter open. “Wait... Is that what this is?”  
That face... She can't quite place it. There is the spark of mischief in his eyes, but still that heavy darkness she can't place. It doesn't worry her, but it's new. Something he's hidden from her. This... False love? Is this what he doesn't want from her?  
“Yes,” he answers, the word a caress. “Affection, and desire.” His fingers trace the side of her face, and she gasps, eyes fluttering again, feeling as if his touch were setting her _aflame_. “A poison that runs through the veins. Pulling up emotions and urges that are best left alone, if they are to bloom in their own time.” She realises that there is no space left between them, and it makes her heart race. There is no place for thought, or confusion, but she feels excitement, certainly. Curiousity, warmth, and a desire, a pulling, a tugging that she need not leave this spot, that she stay perfectly attached to this wizard, this man, this... mountain of power and experience.  
Before she realises what she's doing, she's reached up to kiss him, and his lips hesitate. How can he, when the fire is so splendid?! It feels so wonderful, the moistness of him like hot oil, seeping into her soul, but there's a soft sound from him before he's kissing her back. The hand at her jaw slips into her hair, the hand at her hip slipping behind her. He's pressing her closer, and she in turn wraps her arms around him.  
Everything is full of the warm, golden glow, and then just as suddenly, it scatters into a million pieces – instead of an aura, wrapping around them, the whole room is encased in the glorious light, and then it's just him and her.  
He's gasping as he pulls away, and rests his head against hers, shaking. “Regina, I...”  
“Please,” she pleads, and puts a finger to his lips. Squeezed eyes open, looking to her in such an out-of-character display of vulnerability, it's like a dream come true. “Just love me.”  
He answers with another kiss, and wraps his arms around her, lifting her to him. She slips from the desk to her feet, and then he's spinning her about. By the time her legs meet table again, his tongue has begun to traverse her mouth, and it's slippery, wet and wicked like living velvet, and she moans against him, trying her best to answer in kind. He presses against her, and she is being laid back on the clear table space – _his_ workspace – and he's stretched out over her. Her legs clutch at him, a boot following the line of his form, and then a claw is answering, catching her foot, and tugging at the lacings. She gasps as his mouth devours her, and she finds she can't keep up, and must push against him to breathe. Feverish fingers pull off the boot before moving to the next, and his mouth is covering her skin with open-mouthed kisses, and then his hands are slithering like snakes up her legs, slipping under the skirts and following the trail of her stockings.  
“Oh, Rumpl–” But before she could continue, his mouth has caught hers with a snarling growl, his claws finding the end of her stockings. She gasps, feeling his nails on her flesh, and feels the heat of a blush covering her skin.  
She breaks off to breathe, and he leaves her for but a moment, his nimble fingers setting everything on fire as they peel the layer away. Her skin tingles with the magick, and the fresh air as her legs awaken to it. One limb, and then the other, and then his hands are back at her hips.  
She gasps, as he pulls her against him, a low snarling coming from his chest as he takes her mouth again, and she's too overwhelmed to do more than just take it. She fights, lips and teeth, and his fingers continue their savage exploration, the silk of her bedclothes tied high under her chemise. Her eyes widen, but all she can feel is a thrilling sense of adventure. _“Yes,”_ she whispers, in a voice so wanting, and not her own. His fingers follow the silk up and up, until it carries on past her bundle of skirts, and another growl.  
“How many layers?” he demands, unearthly fire burning in his eyes.  
She whimpers, the delay too much. “The bedclothes are under the chemise. And the bodice. And the skirts.”  
His hands are already at the bodice, untying the knots that trouble her husband for torturous minutes with unlikely ease. He's then ripping and pulling, yard after yard of leather whipping out of the grommets like eels, screaming in their desperate escape from his ministrations. Her breath catches, and she moans as the pressure releases, and her bosom is made free. He's half way done when he slows, and when she looks up, his eyes are fastened on the bloom of pale flesh that has been revealed under her chemise.  
The eels are once more string. Torturous anticipation returns, as he pulls the leather through the grommets. His eyes watch as the corset peels apart, ever so slightly, as the lace comes loose, and his fingers are much gentler as they pluck at the next crisscross.  
It's a whirring sound, as the chord slips through. He stops, and she can hear his heart pounding in her ears, even as she feels his body return to hers.  
What was a flurry of claws and desperation is now a quiet investigation. None of it feels wrong, but the idea that this will take longer pleases her. She rests her neck on her wrist, watching him, intrigued.  
It's the face he wears when he spins, she thinks. That frowny, thinking face. Like he's somewhere else. He touches the string, all dark leather, and he peers at it, head cocked to the side. She looks down to where the 'X' rests, and he hooks a thumb underneath. He wiggles, loosening it, and she gasps at the strange sensation of his nail through the chemise. It gives, and then he slowly pulls, watching the chord as it slips through, making that whirring sound again. She thinks she sees a glint of gold in the string as he moves, but she doesn't pay it any mind.  
Before long, the last five stitches are three, then two, and then the last catch. He pulls and pulls, his fingers moving the length along, until he holds in his hand the long chord. He muses over it, and she wonders what he plans to do with it. Perhaps a trophy? He leans against the table, his hips resting between her legs (and she squeezes him gently, the leather cool and strange against her soft flesh), and he plays with it, finding the ends.  
When he does, he folds it in half. Through all of this, she has patiently watched him, curious about his curiousity, but she finds herself wondering the point.  
“What are you going to do with it?” she asks.  
For the first time in what seems like forever, he looks her in the eyes once more. And then, he does what he usually does, when she asks a very loaded question – he grins. “That...” He points a finger at her, strings floating before him. “Is what I'm wondering myself.” His vision returns to the string, and he puzzles over it, folding it in on itself, the long length insisting he take his time, until it is a more manageable collection.  
She caresses a foot along the back of his shin. The boots he wears are all a harsh, heavy leather. And they go up, up, up... She smiles, musing over how she's going to manage to untie them when they're all the way down there, and she's all the way up here. Above her, Rumplestiltskin has finished, and he grins at her, before letting out that infernal giggle.  
It sends the most _delightful_ shivers down her spine.  
“Now then, dearie. Have you ever heard of a safe word?”  
She blinks at him. “Sorry?”  
“A safe word,” he repeats carefully. “I may be under a spell, but there are still lines one mustn't cross.”  
She frowns. “What do you mean?”  
He collects the strings in one hand, and then brings another to her face. “If there is anything I do... Anything at all.” The quiet, withdrawn, serious nature of his expression ought to worry her. “That you don't want me to do, you must tell me. If anything makes you uncomfortable, or gives you the kind of pain you _don't_ like...” And here he gives her a suggestive wiggle of the eyebrows. “You must let me know.” He wags a finger at her. “Let no one call me a rapist. If my young apprentice wishes to break the rules and intrude on my workspace and make potions without my supervision – particularly such potentially _dangerous_ ones – and without warning me ahead of time, she deserves what punishments she gets.”  
She frowned, not sure what to make of that. “...Punishments?”  
And without any warning at all, there is a _crack_ through the air, and the collected strings act like a whip, attacking and biting the soft flesh of her legs with what seemed like a hundred tiny teeth.  
“AAURGH!” she screamed, tossing her head back, and hurting herself on the table. “THE HELL?!”  
“Does it hurt?” he teased, that demonic grin on his face.  
“Of course it bloody- AAURGH!” He whipped her again, and she let out a whimper. “Damnit...”  
He let out that infernal giggle. “Now, my dear, you truly do need to be punished.” He collected the makeshift whip in his hands. “But, each person handles pain differently. Handles shame and punishment differently. The fact that you and I are currently trapped in a 'love' spell, as they so crudely phrase it,” he said, using a flourish of his hands to mock the word, “changes the game up quite a bit. That being said, there will be lines. Things you can't take, even given the circumstances. In that situation, you are to use your safe word. But not when you are merely in pain, or in need of a break – the point of this is to muscle through, grow _stronger_ , past your weaknesses!” He thrust a fist against his chest at this. “But when you're truly hurt, truly in pain, truly not wanting _any_ of it.” His voice lowered to a deathly whisper. “When you feel like your very soul is going to break from the horror of it.” And the nasty, cruel twist of his lips said he _hoped_ he could think of something so depraved, “ _That_ is when you'll use your safe word.” He cracked the whip again, this time on her other leg, and she let out another cry. “...Understood?”  
She gasped, trying to catch her breath. “And... And what is my safe word?”  
He giggled. “Guess.”  
He cracked the whip again.  
“GAH!” She bit down a curse, and squeezed her eyes shut. He was right – she'd withstood worse from her mother, with that accursed vine spell.  
She took a deep breath, and then let it out. It shook. “Y-your name?”  
He clapped, letting out a delighted “HAH!”, and she could hear the strings bounce. “Exactly right! Ooh, you pay attention. How delightful!” And then he whipped her again.  
“GAH! ...Fuck.”  
And then, his hand was at her throat, and his knee was at her centre, and his breath was in her mouth. “Now now, dearie...” he warned, his voice low and dangerous. “Such foul language is unbecoming in a Queen.”  
She squealed as he whipped her again, and couldn't help how she writhed. But Rumplestiltskin held his own, his hand clutching at her throat, squeezing just enough for the pressure to fire off warnings in her head, but not enough to do damage.  
 _“Do we understand?”_ he whispered in her ear.  
“What...” She swallowed, but it was hard to do. His fingers made the passage feel strange. “What else will I be punished for?”  
And then he let out the most menacing cackle. “Oh, that remains to be seen, doesn't it?”  
And then he turned from her, and made his way to the shelf. She took the opportunity to sit up, and carefully touched her legs. She grimaced at the sight of red lines marking her skin, but there was no blood. She touched it, and it stung, but...  
“I didn't say you could move,” he called from the shelves. She obediently returned to her odd position on the table, the blood rushing throughout her body.  
 _'...You and I are currently trapped...'_  
She mused over it. Was it true? That they were _both_ trapped? If they weren't, that meant that he was doing this out of his own cruel, sadistic sense of humour. She wouldn't put that past him, but it did seem a bit much, debauching his apprentice. Sure, he was lewd, but she'd always thought he meant it more to be shocking than any genuine desire. But if it was a love spell...  
...this was his definition of 'love'?  
When Rumplestiltskin returned to her, he placed a collection of jars and boxes and things beside her. His work space was considerably larger than hers, and yet she still felt nervous with supplies on either side of her, now. Particularly since not too far away, her failed – or far-too-successful? – love potion was likely still bubbling. She couldn't really tell from this angle.  
The Dark One returned to his position between her legs, the leather touching her thighs, while his hands squeezed her legs to him. She closed her eyes as his hands clutched at her flesh, and her ankles locked behind him. He caressed her flesh, gently tracing the flat palm of his hand over the sore area... and then he whispered his fingertips along it, tracing invisible lines... and then he tipped his fingers on end, trailing his nails lightly in her flesh. When he started to dig, she gasped.  
All of a sudden, he pulled back, and brought his hands down with a forceful SMACK!, and she yelped.  
His rumbling chuckle was more felt than heard. “You have been a rather naughty girl. We will need to punish you accordingly.” He pulled out the corset chord, and stretched himself over her. Her breath caught, and for reasons she could explain, she reached up to kiss him, but he kept himself just out of reach. Instead, he took her hands, and held her wrists together. She gasped, confused, and then the chord was winding around and around and around, twisting and turning between and around, until they were bound quite nicely. The chord was thick enough for a bodice, but thin enough to press sharply into her skin. She whimpered.  
“Is it too tight, my dear?” he teased.  
She bit her lip, not sure how she was supposed to respond. “Nothing I can't handle?” she asked.  
He rewarded her with a raised eyebrow, and a smirk. “Good answer.”  
To her delight, he lowered himself for a kiss, and she took it greedily, her lips dancing with his, even as his fingers caressed her face, trailing down her neck, slipping to her collarbone. When he arose, both of them were flushed, eyes low, and his hand rested just above her bosom.  
“If you do well, you will be rewarded,” he whispered.  
She nodded. “I'll do my best.” And then, “Master.”  
That wicked grin returned, along with the giggle. “Closer, dearie....” His hand whipped through the air before falling hard on her leg once more, and she bit through a grunt. “Very close.” He almost sounded disappointed. He leaned over her once more, securing her hands to Gods-knew-what. Out of the collection of things, he pulled out a pair of blades, and cut the chord.  
He let out a deep breath, as if very bothered by the time all of this was taking, and set the blades to work at cutting the strings on her skirts. “Now, dearie. I expect you to behave.” And then he reconsidered, and shrugged. “Or not. Matters not, to me. We have nothing but time, until your little spell wears off. And until then, I intend to make sure you _learn your lesson_.” His eyes were sincere, even as they danced with a dangerous mischief. “So, no. I will not be taking it easy on you. You may enjoy it, but only because you _have_ to. 'Tis in the nature of the spell. And yes... I will be enjoying it, too.” There was that evil, crocodile smile. “So we're going to make this a productive study session.” He untied the shoulders of her corset, then leaned over her again. She sighed as his arms enveloped her, the heat and press of his body wrapped over hers, but his hands merely tugged the corset from beneath her. The skirts were pulled away, and tossed aside. She shivered as the cool surface of the table met her legs. He didn't hum as he worked, but his eyes swept over everything, that dark hunger still in them. He was precise as he slipped his warm, nimble hands underneath her again, caressing her arse while the slithering digits snatched up her chemise and pulled and shifted it up to her shoulders. His hands swept over the flush of her hips, tracing over the silk of her bedclothes, stopping to fondle and knead her breasts. She mumured softly at that, and her eyes closed. The fingers pressed and pinched at her nipples, gentle at first, nursing them as they hardened. And then he pinched harder, until she was biting her lip.  
His body leaned over her, the leather shifting against her centre, sparking with the magickal fire. Her eyes flashed open when something warm and wet replaced a hand.  
She looked down to the messy mane of ragged hair, that sharp nose of his slipping over her silk bedclothes, his lips open and pressed against her breast, that wicked tongue lapping and whipping at her. She hissed when the sharp bite of his teeth clutched to her, but she watched as his mouth plucked at the point, stretching the skin, and gasped again when the nipple slipped through his teeth, the harsh edges scraping against the sensitive flesh as it bounced back into place, a dark spot marking where his mouth had been.  
He replaced the hand and did the same to the right, and she found herself wanting to run her fingers through his hair, to tell him how much she enjoyed it, cruel and torturous as it was, but the bindings held her, and her wrists pulled at the leather.  
The nipple popped back into place, and his fingers rolled around the soft forms, pinching gently at the tips. His eyes were dark, almost unseeing, and there was a solemn look to his face that was at once alarming and arousing. His face came toward her, and she reached up for a kiss, but he only let his lips brush hers before he pulled away. He stayed there, just out of reach, and as much as she struggled, she couldn't reach. She huffed, pouting, and relented. Those elusive lips curled in a soft smile, and his fingers pinched again.  
“...You like that, don't you?” he asked, his voice a low rumbling.  
She nodded emphatically. She hadn't known she would, or even if she did, but right now, _anything_ he did with that _tongue_ , and that _mouth_...  
She couldn't get enough!  
“...Please,” she asked, her voice a scarce whisper.  
He beamed. “Please, what?” he asked. The Devil.  
“Please... Don't stop.”  
“Mmm? Don't stop what?” He pinched at her again, this time using the points of his nails to stab her delicate pieces through the silk. She gasped, letting out a whimper, and pushed her lips together. “Be specific, dearie. If you want something, you must be specific.”  
She opened her lips to answer, but all that came out was her own heavy breathing.  
He was only patient for a short time, before he decided she'd not be taking her opportunity to voice what it was exactly that she wanted. Instead, he leaned back up, and his fingers trailed down her belly, pressing into the silk, past her navel to her hips, and she shivered. When the silk ended, and the flesh began, his fingers plucked at the edges, making her gasp as cool air hit the tortured flesh. When he slipped soft digits inside, and caressed where the fabric met the creases of her body, she let out a low and heavy moan.  
“Mmm... You like that, don't you?” he asked again.  
“Mmm...” She answered. It felt _so good..._  
...His fingers stopped. “Regina.”  
Her eyes flew open, and her face contorted. Why did he stop?! She looked up at him, eyes wide and lacking understanding. He was studying her with that frowny face, that glimmer of mischief, like she was a puzzle to figure out.  
“Answer me, dearie,” he said softly. “Do you like that?”  
She nodded emphatically.  
Her purposely removed his hands, resting them on either side of her on the table. He even leaned forward, pressing against her centre. “Use your words, dearie,” he hissed, and there was that smile. “Do you like that?”  
“Yes,” she whispered, as if it were a prayer.  
“Be more specific,” he chided. “What is it that I'm doing that you like?”  
“When you...” It was so hard to breathe, let alone think, and speak... “When you touch me.”  
“Touch you how?” His hands returned to her flesh, setting her aflame once more, caressing the sides of her legs with tender, soft fingertips.  
“There – where the bedclothes rub on me all day. It's sore, and tender. When you stroke...” She sighed. “It feels so good.”  
“Mmm...” He slipped his fingers there again, caressing her once more. She gasped, and moaned again. “Like this?”  
She nodded. “Yes, exactly like that,” she hissed. “Oh, gods, it feels _so good_...”  
Through heavy-lidded eyes she watched him. His eyes were nearly closed, too, just the dark centres watching her, as his touch lingered, feather-light, where the cloth tortured her all day. She let out a whimper when one reached higher, the latent energy coming alive to his touch, as he separated the cloth from the skin it had been attached to since it'd been put on that morning.  
“Oh, Rump-...” She caught herself, with a small, desperate sound.  
He giggled! “Oh, you can go ahead, dearie,” he allowed. “'Rumple' will be sufficient.”  
“Mm, Rumple,” she murmured, her lips smiling around the name. “Rumple, Rumple, Rumple. That feels _fantastic_.” She looked up at him, and there was that fondness, that kindness, and that tenderness that he'd had before the lust had come in.  
...And as soon as she thought it, he seemed to realise it, too. His face saddened, and he looked down at her form. The fingers slipped out, and he reached to her top, and undid the pretty little bows that held the whole thing together. With some tugging – every time his skin touched hers, she felt the magick spark again – he slipped it off, his hands perhaps lingering a bit longer on her hips, as he fought the silk from her hot, wet core. As soon as he peeled it away, the scent of her was so thick in the air, she could taste it, and she closed her eyes to inhale the scent of it.  
It was _luscious_ , like crisp, juicy apples. If it did that to _her_ , she couldn't imagine what it did to _him_.  
The very idea intrigued her, and she looked up at him to see him holding the silk in his fingers, as if it were a precious thing. His hands turned it inside-out, and he took that part that had been so intimately touching her, and held it to his face, his eyes fluttering closed as he inhaled the scent of her. His lips parted, tempted, and then she watched that wicked tongue slip out, and steal a taste from her garment.  
She let out a breathy moan at the sight of it. How she would love for him to do that to _her_...  
“Rumple...” she breathed. But his hands were shaking, and he'd collected the garment in his mouth, and was sucking on it, making tiny squelching sounds that made her squirm in want and desire.  
“Mm! Rumple!” she begged, and he gave a shuddering gasp before forcing himself to stop, and then he half-heartedly tossed the garment away, staring at it as if it were some horrible, wonderful dream that he couldn't quite trust or believe.  
“Rumple...” she called again. His haunted eyes looked to her, his lips still parted.  
“Please...” she smiled. “Do that to me.”  
He blinked at her, but even still, he stepped closer. He said nothing else, and did nothing else.  
“Please... Taste me,” she said, be _specific_. “Use that mouth of yours for something other than talk for once, eh?”  
His eyes focused on her own lips, doubtless watching how they twisted into such a wonderful, luscious smile as she spoke the damning words. She hoped that they would tempt him into doing it. She felt so _alive_ , and she moved her body, starting with a roll of her shoulders, twisting her waist, moving her hips. She watched his hands follow the curves and movements, as she'd hoped he would, and she finished by spreading her legs wide for him, propping a foot against the table so that he would have a thigh to torture as well. “Come taste me, Rumple.”  
He was shaking, she could see, but he still stumbled to his knees. Desperate hands caught her legs, but his head was where it needed to be. She felt her breathing pick up at the knowledge of his presence _there_ , and began to gasp when she felt his breath against her hot centre.  
“Mm... Rumple, please...” she moaned.  
His fingers curled around her legs, and then the silk of his shoulders was against them, and then the hot, wet of his tongue was touching her.  
She gave a huge gasp, and an immediate whimper. His fingers trembled, but before long, the tongue was back, and then it was lapping at her, twisting this way and that, a fluid, velvet thing, exploring her depths, and teasing mewling whimpers and moans from her. When his teeth brushed against her tender piece, and his lips closed around it, sucking on it, she cried out, but it only made him do it _again_.  
“Oh, Rumple!” she moaned, pulling at her wrists, and his fingers were sure, now, clutching to her, as his mouth ravished her. They picked her up, resting her thighs on his shoulders, and her legs arched over the luxurious silk, her toes teasing at the beginnings of leather. His hair tickled at her creases, even as his fingers wandered, lightly scraping at the sensitive underbelly of her thighs. As his ministrations continued and worsened in their thoroughness, her mewls became moans and groans, and then cries. “Rumple!” she cried, twisting and writhing in her bindings, wanting nothing more than to encourage him, and to grip his hair and express her pleasure. Her legs clung to him, in the only other way she could, and she cried again, “Oh, Rumple! YES! Oh– Oh, gods, YES!”  
He let out a growl, and the teeth took to her lips, catching the delicate folds, and she moaned again, his wet tongue slipping out of her core, and teasing at that crease that his fingers had touched just before. Low, shuddering moans slipped from her lips as he touched her there, the hot and wet washing and lapping it away, and she wondered what it tasted like, all salt and sweat and magick and apples and _love_ , and–  
–and he moved his lips to suck on her most sensitive spot without warning, and it was so _much_ , she _screamed!_ , and her body thrashed so hard, that one leg came off his shoulder, and the pair of them were put off balance.  
He stumbled, catching her, and she panted, her breathing harsh gasps, and really, she wasn't getting any proper air _at all_. And what little breath she had, caught in her throat when a low chuckle came from below.  
It grew into a proper laugh, as he stood, one leg still high on his shoulder, the other draped over an arm. He rested her hips on the counter again, even as his claws trailed at her soft flesh.  
“Enjoying yourself?” he asked, his voice shaking with a kind mirth that she hadn't seen on him before.  
“Mm...” she murmured, words not quite there. The fire was everywhere, warming everything, and it made her dizzy, and drunk. “Yes. You?”  
He cocked his head to the side, that wicked, teasing glimmer to his eye. “I'm not unhappy.” He blessed a kiss to the leg, the sticky moistness of her clinging to his lips, and now to her skin. Knowing that it was _her_ settled in his mouth did wonderful things to her, and she watched his eyes flutter almost closed, as he lapped up the juices, and then licked them from his lips with that wicked, wonderful tongue. She murmured softly, the view just so... wonderful, and intimate. She never wanted him to stop looking at her with those warm eyes...  
...But those warm eyes were also sad. He carefully lowered the legs back to the table, and returned to his place between them. He reached over her, taking the boxes and small chests, and scattered them around her.  
She'd nearly forgotten about them. As she looked around at them all, she felt a quickening. What was in these? She recognised some of them, but she couldn't quite place anything. Surely he wouldn't...?  
“Now,” her Master said, quietly. “We must continue your lessons. You know what it is to be punished, and you know what it is to be rewarded.” He smirked. “Are you ready to begin?”  
She bit her lip. It wasn't like she had much of a choice...  
...and somehow, that made it more exciting.  
She nodded. “Yes. I-I think so.”  
He let out that infernal giggle. “Excellent.”  
He chose a small chest from the left. From inside, he pulled out a flower, icy blue, glowing as if with fairy dust, or moonlight. She swallowed hard. “Now. Do you remember what this is?”  
“I-ice flower,” she answered.  
“And it's purpose?”  
“Ah... Most commonly for pain relief,” she quoted, although the words came to her slow. She had to convince her mind that, _yes_ , this _was_ important. If it wanted him to touch her again, she had to answer his quiz, and do so well, or it would be the whip again...  
...and the whip was not his hands.  
“Most commonly,” he echoes. He's taken the blossom, and plucked out the center. He sets the flower back into the box, and holds the fruit over her body. “Explain.”  
Her breathing hitches. “Err... It has secondary uses as a... a narcotic,” she gasped. His fingers crush the bulb, and he trails the juices on her stomach. She seethes, feeling the icy cool juices tingle on her skin. “It's terribly addictive,” she adds.  
“Means of application?”  
“Uh...”  
He's swirling it, now. His nails and fingertips are tracing patterns of the juice over her skin, and everywhere it touches, tingles and cools.  
“T-topical,” she breathes, her chest heaving. “For minor aches and pains. Seeps into the muscles to ease sores.” She can already feel the cool quiet of her skin as the magick settles in to do its work. “Mm... Or ingested, for serious internal injuries.”  
“Side effects.” He's opening another box, and wiping his hands on something.  
“Uh...” She could faintly taste the sparkling stardust. “H-hallucinations. Dizziness, to those unaccustomed. Loss of a-appetite–” She gasps as something hot and wet is on her skin, and she murmurs.  
“...Go on,” he says, and she can hear the smile.  
“Mm...” The tingling lingers a little longer, but whatever he's using is pulling the magick out of her. “The... the hallucinations accompany a... sensation. A... tingling sensation. Funny dreams. Some people seek it out for these... hallucinogenic p-properties. Mm.” By now, it's entirely gone, and her brain is buzzing oddly. “It's rather rare, so it's very expensive. Not a habit to be condoned, at any rate.”  
“Only to be used for emergencies,” he agrees. And yet he's wasted an entire bulb – enough to quiet a gaping wound for almost a day, or to ease internal pain for two – on _her_. She feels flattered, and adored.  
He pops open another box, and this time it is a gem, roughly cut, of a dark orange-red. Her eyes widen, and she whimpers. He gives a wicked grin, and pulls out with it a blade – she knows it as his diamond-cut dagger, for cutting stones. He sets these aside, saying nothing, and puts on dragonhide gloves. She listens to him scraping, and shuts her eyes, knowing that this will _hurt_.  
When he has a decent shaving, he holds it up to her, blazing such a bright white it burns her eyes, clutched between his gloved fingers. “And this?” How can he be so damned cheery? It's beguiling.  
“Dragon stone,” she whispers. And with only that as a warning, there is a searing hot pain as it touches her skin, far hotter than molten metal, than frying oil, than even dragon's breath, and she _screams_.  
And he's right – she enjoys it.  
It doesn't stop a tear from trickling down her cheek, however, as she fights to catch her breath.  
“Where does dragon stone come from?” he asks, and there's the darkness that sends a chill down her spine. Even more so than usual, but it's a _delicious_ fear. Something in her mind notes that this is a very cruelly taught lesson.  
“Dragons stones are gems crafted and enchanted by dragons,” she answers. Her body is trembling. He slices the edge of the blazing hot shaving across her belly, and she screams again. She is weeping quietly when she adds, “Th-they use it to keep their nests warm. It is hottest at the center; very valuable to a practitioner as a heating element, as its hotter than dragon's breath itself.”  
And he's burned her with it. He slices it down her skin again, and she screams once more, her body writhing away from it, even as the spell's fire welcomes the pain and flushes her with want and desire because of it.  
“Safety precautions?” His tone of voice is demanding, and she feels the warning and hatred there.  
“You mustn't allow it to touch your skin,” she whispers. “Burns can be quite extensive.” As she speaks, something cool and tingly touches her skin – but also warm and wet. The magick seeps in, swallowing the hot and fire of the stone, and making her head dizzy. This is reckless, she notes, but the spell won't let her dwell on sense. Whatever he was using to save the ice flower's juices, he now returns it to her. Something notes with pride that she will most certainly be wearing marks of this adventure for days – no, weeks to come.  
In this way, he pokes through each of the boxes, each filled with a nasty thing, zapping her, icing her, burning her, making her skin boil and pucker and constrict or all-out fall away. Her mouth screams, but her heart sings, each torment and torture another token of his devotion. His questions are clipped and business-like for the most part, but after the ashwinders – serpents made of hellfire, whose eggs are powerful potions ingredients – have feasted on her skin, he balances his visciousness with the glowing ecstasy of elvine lavendar, flying her high in euphoria and peace. His voice is soft, encouraging, affectionate, and she almost things apologetic, but then the item is replaced with another, harsher element. It's hours that feel like lifetimes before he pulls out the last jar jar, this one full of a creamy-coloured gel.  
“And this?” he asks. His voice has grown weary. His hands are shaking, but he scoops out a fingerful of the goop.  
Her breath shudders, and her eyes are welled with tears, but she looks up anyway, to see what the next item is. She swallows, as recognition comes to her.  
“Ganger flesh,” she whispers, awed. She didn't realise he had any of that. It's incredibly difficult to maintain.  
“Uses?” He sticks the finger into the charred hole left by the adolescent ashwinder as it burned its way through her skin. It took her three minutes to stop screaming _after_ he'd pulled it out and turned it back to ash.  
She whimpers. “It...It acts as flesh. It mimics the skin around it... Very advanced magick.” She swallows again. For all of his cruelties, he is as well-versed in healing magicks as he is curses. Something takes pride in the fact that he takes such good care of her, despite the torments. For every scar he's carved into her skin, he will now repair the damage. He works the stuff into her various holes and wounds, with restrained tenderness. It warms her heart. “Very hard to maintain. Hard to manufacture, to any degree of usefulness.” She looks down, and marvels at how quickly her wounds are filling up. The pain still lingers, but perhaps it won't take her the months and months to recover that she'd feared. He has a way of covering his tracks and fixing his mistakes that astounds her. “To have it work this well... It must be very pure.”  
He smirks. “Flattery is not appreciated.” There is a self-efficacy that she finds endearing in his words.  
“Just an observation,” she answers. “It must be false to be flattery. I confess, I did not realise how extensive your collection is. I'm honoured that you have bestowed such wisdom on me.”  
He let out a harsh giggle. “Oh, this is only a sampling, dearie. These are mere torments of the _flesh_. There are far worse punishments for you that would twist and warp your mind and soul until you wouldn't even know who you were... What you wanted... What you loved...”  
His face turns for the melancholy, the words petering out as he concentrates on the task. She hisses as his fingers trace over the garish line of the dragon stone, and his eyes turn to her with concern.  
“Hard learned lessons, these,” he says, his voice again quiet and soft. “I think about 30 years of pain has been gifted to you in several hours.” He boops her nose with a gloppy finger in an attempt to be kind. “Be grateful. Many wizards must go through a lot of hardship to learn what you've learned. Remember this.”  
She nods, awed and honoured. That he would endure her agony for her own education is something terribly flattering. “Yes, Master. Of course.”  
Although her body still aches, the muscles remembering their torture and the screaming and the pain, and her throat is sore and her soul is weary, she is pleased when he takes the last of the boxes and sets it under the table. He stands between her legs, still dressed in silk and leathers, wearing those sad, tender eyes, and his hands rest on either side of her. He wears that soft smile.  
“All that torment...” he breathes, his voice filled with awe and wonder. “And you never once said my name.”  
She blushed. To be honest, she'd forgotten that she could have stopped it by merely mentioning his given name. It had been all she could do to remember the answers to his questions. Thought beyond that was impossible, with all of the magick flooding through her veins. Even now, traces of ice and fire and earth and dust still linger, making her head dizzy. “No... I didn't.”  
His fingers trace over her skin, marked by his lessons, even as the ganger flesh works its magick to repair her. “I must say. Of all that you could have done, your fortitude impresses me the most.”  
She realises that his compliment is sincere, and it makes her heart race. “Truly?”  
He nods. “Truly.” He is leaning closer, and closer, until his body covers hers, and the magick blossoms with warmth at the feel of his touch. His lips reach for hers, and she gives out a desperate murmur, and they are kissing, his mouth warm and wet, and _perfect_. He tastes of spices, and smoke. Woods and something like raw wool, warm and coarse, but so _right_. His fingers are running up and down the sides of her, the ganger rubbing everywhere, soothing _everything_ >, and it just feels _right_.  
The lessons have taken their toll on him as well, as his own throat lets out desperate groans, and his arms cling her to him, lifting her from the table.  
She forces herself to pull away. “Rumple,” she whispers. “Please. Give me back my hands.”  
His breath catches, those scared, vulnerable eyes glancing up to where her bindings have been ripped and pulled at, but not giving way. There is a dark bruising around her wrists, and he nods, quickly undoing the strings. Immediately, her hands are in his hair, brushing them from his beautiful, green and gold face, and their faces are smashed together, like nothing could separate them again. He lets out a breathy moan, as he collects her in his arms, pulling her close, tucking her around him. She wraps her arms around him, her hands clawing at the golden silk, even as her lips kiss all over his face, and down to his neck. He groans, but throws back his head for her ministrations, and when she bites, his guttural, unearthly growl pulls at her groin. Her hands pull and tug at his shirt, until it comes out of the leather, and her legs are pressed against his, and then her fingers are at his front, pulling at leather bindings. His length is long and hard, pulsing with want.  
“I want you,” he whispers. “Let me have you.”  
“Of course,” she breathes. “Of course. It's what I want, too... Have done...”  
His lips capture hers again before she can put a timeline to her confession. In his desperation, he moves her hands out of the way, and releases himself. Hungry hands push her to the table again, and her eyes are dark with desire, as her lips part in a hedonistic smile. He gasps as his fingers finally touch himself, and he groans at having met the desire. He looks down to her, and her eyes widen and brighten as she recognises that lustfulness, the timid fear and vulnerability hiding just behind it.  
“Take me,” she whispers, and his body buckles. With a pained whimper, he complies, and trembling hands pull her hips to his, as his throbbing cock meets at her entrance.  
It presses, hard and unforgiving, and they both cry out as he pushes himself in.  
“Oh god...” he breathes, and she moans.  
“Oh, Rumple, _yes_ ,” she purrs, and she reaches to his hair, and pulls him down. He can do nothing but obey, and the fire that burns inside her as they _know_ each other is immense, worth any hours of torturous lessons, worth any of his cruel jibes, his tricks and traps and carefully worded arrangements. Together they writhe, a beast with two backs, all moans and groans and wet, hot, sloppy kisses, and pure love and adoration, and it's the most _blissfully perfect_ union she'd ever dreamed, and he's moving, fluid and sure, and trembling with want and love and tenderness and...  
...and then, as quickly as it came, the spell broke.  
It was like another shattering, as if the light that had filled the room was suddenly put out, and everything took on a darkness, the setting sun blanketing everything in shadow. The warm fire that had enveloped her was suddenly put out, and replaced with a different, _far_ less pleasant flame.  
She cried out, her skin burning with _pain_. Stripes on her legs from his whips, gaping holes from where the ashwinder feasted on her flesh, the burned stripes of the dragon stone and a half-dozen other poisons, the puckering of cruel plants and unkind oils, the ice in her veins from the ice flower, the dizziness, the buzzing, the torture, and the pale comfort of his healing magicks, but the worst of all was _him_ pulsing inside her.  
There was an angry snarling, and his hands were like stone. One grabbed at her throat, squeezing past comfort, and she gasped, tears swelling her eyes. Every scream, every cry, every whimper, every moan, every sob that he'd ignored while he tortured her, _enjoying_ every last second of the cruel lesson. She might have thought he was being kind, saving her this last offense, but he had instead waited so that it would be what she woke up to.  
 _“THERE, WITCH,”_ he hissed, spittle flying in her face. She whimpered, eyes blinking against the onslaught. _“Is this what you wanted?”_  
Magick or no magick, she would most certainly be recovering from this betrayal for a very long time, in body and soul. The feel of him pounding in and out was now cruel; hot, yes, but she felt as if she were being ripped and torn from the inside-out, the ashwinders and blood gems and dragon stones surpassing it in heat, but not in cruelty. He went at his own pace, faster than any she'd ever had, more than the desperate husband in a castle that was her cage; this was inhuman and unholy. He had no mercy for her.  
 _“IS THIS WHAT YOU WANTED?!”_ he roared. His hips bucked, and she cried out, his hands claws, scratching at her, making her weep from the pain, digging into her wounds, upsetting the ganger flesh where it attempted to help, tearing into the wounds, bringing up fresh blood and renewed agony. Her own hands pushed at him, pounded fists on his chest, still garbed in silk, while her own garments were scattered on the floor behind him. She was stripped naked, and he was not.  
 _“THIS ISN'T LOVE,”_ he snarled. “This isn't what breaks curses, what they write about in storybooks! This is how pathetic people make their lives more bearable, using lies and chemistry and magick for a night of disastrous hope!”  
 _Love is weakness_ , her mother's voice added, cold and cruel.  
 _“You remember this,”_ he hissed. “You remember, and remember that you did it to yourself! I warned you, but you didn't listen.”  
His hand were a vice grip on her hips, as he took her body in his hands, and used her to his own twisted satisfaction – he thrust them both, his hips and hers, even faster and harder than before. Snarls and growls, and demonic noises slipped from his lips as his body writhed, and all she could do was struggle against him and _weep_ , as he sought his climax. Before long, his head flung back with a low, unearthly howl, and he gave another two-three-four sharp thrusts, before exiting her with a last grunt, his nails digging into her flesh, and she sobbed, thin tears falling from her face, realising that there would be no way to explain this pain and betrayal to her husband, who would still want her when she returned home...  
Below her, Rumplestiltskin panted. His claws uncoiled, and then were hands again. They rested against her by-now once-again-destroyed flesh, and he looked up at her, his eyes still hooded with that darkness, that she now knew as his _genuine_ lust. And it was a wrathful _bloodlust_. He was truly a monster.  
“You remember this,” he breathed again. And then he summoned a heavy, wool blanket, and tossed it over her form. It took him but a moment to redress himself, and then he turned and left the room, his boots clipping on the stonework. “And you owe me a day of labour!” he tossed back over his shoulder.  
Regina collapsed against the table, weeping, every inch of her throbbing from his... _lessons_.

**Author's Note:**

> Given her previous abuse, and his penchant for nastiness, I find something like this is a natural solution. She had a love, and then an arranged marriage with a man who knows she is unhappy, and even when she gets the chance for a proper lover (Glass), she doesn't take it with open arms, but manipulates him to improve her own state. By that point she is very, VERY far gone, and after this week's episode... WELL. He's just a bit too proud of how wicked she is, which just adds more insult to injury when that 'evil soul' turns his Belle against him. But he so enjoys toying with her, and there's so much tension (sexual and otherwise) between them, I think it incredibly naive to think that it wasn't acted on at LEAST once during her apprenticeship. I can speak from experience that with a great deal of work, YES, you can do your best to do nothing, but when the room is full of gasoline, it only takes a spark to set the place ablaze. I find it right that it should be something almost innocent and accidental that sets the house on fire ('Nothing is innocent.') and the potion takes the blame away from both parties. By making it fairly non-consensual, it gets chalked up to just careless magick, versus the honest cruelty that it excuses. I also like to think that there's a twisted fondness in Regina's words when she refers to him as 'Rumple' instead of the respectful 'Master' or polite 'Rumplestiltskin' that she doesn't use. Even Jefferson doesn't refer to him by name in the Doctor, and I think part of that is a healthy amount of fear for the Dark One. And a wee bit of suspenseful writing...
> 
> References: Ice Flower is MINE. I crafted it with my waifu Kate during our kaeguri writing, and if you steal it, I will kill you (at least in fiction). Dragon stone and elvin lavendar are also of my crafting. The ashwinders are Rowling's, and the 'love potion's' interesting 'smells' is indicative of her Amortentia as well. Ganger flesh is from Doctor Who.
> 
> ...and yes, I realise that Rumplestiltskin is breaking all kinds of protocol by not 'negotiating terms pre-scene', but that's what he did. And yes, I have horrifying headcanons. And no, my writing isn't usually this silly-sounding -- I blame that on Regina (who is very silly) and a bit of the potion, because I can be a lot more biting, or snarky when given the right set up, BUT, when brewing coffee, we must always keep in mind the drinker. //Nathan Lowell reference.
> 
> What a telling way to pop my AO3 posting cherry.


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